


and i burn for you

by bottleredhead



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Enjolras is a self-satisfying bastard and Grantaire is addicted to unhealthy things, M/M, No Dialogue, Unhealthy Relationships, and metaphors, feels and metaphors, i.e. Enjolras, lots of feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-02
Updated: 2013-06-02
Packaged: 2017-12-13 17:29:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/826907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bottleredhead/pseuds/bottleredhead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“One day you fall for this boy, and he touches you with his fingers. And he burns holes in your skin with his mouth. And it hurts when you look at him, and it hurts when you don’t. And it feels like someone’s cut you open with a jagged piece of glass, and then you realise you always felt this way.”<br/>— 	 The Tracey Fragments | Maureen Medved</p>
            </blockquote>





	and i burn for you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [F (because she liked such stories)](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=F+%28because+she+liked+such+stories%29).



> Prompt: http://makinghugospin.livejournal.com/13289.html?thread=9032169#t9032169
> 
> This is in Second Person POV, even though I hate that. It just really fit this idea, so...

_one day you fall for this boy_

It happens suddenly, like stepping into a room and forgetting why you walked in, like remembering to breathe after holding it in and it’s a rush and overwhelming all at once, like squinting for a long time before forgetting why you were doing that and there’s a painful relief in your eyebrows as they smooth out.

Like sitting in the back of a café only to realise, I love him, and you drink even more because you don’t know what to do with that information and even if you did you won’t have the courage to act on it.

Why? Because he burns like the sun and you’ve been burned before to know that an ice pack and burn cream won’t be enough, not this time, when he inevitably leaves you spiraling through the skies and hurtling down in free fall, wax hot and searing on your shoulder blades while the sea waits for you with a sick sense of anticipation.

_and he touches you with his fingers_

When his fingers trace down your neck and press against your pulse point, feeling it jump wildly, you think you can do this forever. His fingers keep moving, roving and searching and exploring you, every touch both burn and balm to balm and burn, pinpricks of pain where his nails dig in soothed by soft finger pads. You relish his desire for violence, reflected in the half-moons littering your back, mirrored in the long gouges, red and aching oh so pleasurably, highlighting your chest, your sides, the small of your back.

_and he burns holes in your skin with his mouth_

His mouth is an open circle on your skin and you think, _maybe spiraling through skies and hurtling in free fall isn’t so bad after all_ , if only he keeps doing that, oh fuck, _yes please_ and _more_. His lips are moist and impossibly warm, dragging over your Adam’s apple with just the barest hint of teeth, the friction doing things to you that you never thought possible. His mouth follows his fingers, leaving you a bruise-marked map riddled with holes where his passion leaks out and burns you and you don’t really mind the scent of burning flesh imagined in the back of your mind.

_but it hurts when you look at him_

He is at his most glorious when the two of you are together like this, sweat glinting at his clavicles and slicking your skin so you can feel him on you, in you, all around you. He smells like sex and a fervor so fierce there’s no way one man can hold it all in without breaking. So he takes it out on you and you don’t complain, gazing at him with reverence as he plunders you, pushing your limits until you break but not yet, pumping ( _in and out, fuck Apollo_ ) this passion into you so you are filled to the brim, threatening to overflow. It hurts, but in a good way, and you can’t look at him yet you can’t not, there are so many can’s and can’t’s, so many variables with him so you never know where you stand but you wouldn’t have it any other way.

_and it hurts when you don’t_

(You can’t stand not looking at him. His image is forever branded behind your eyelids, an eternal reminder of what you have and can’t hold on to, because he is fleeting, here one moment and gone the next and there are so many metaphors that your head starts spinning, not the least because of how he’s moving his hips to drive even deeper.

There’s a tightening of muscles and then release, as you scream and thrash, vulnerable, his for the taking. And he takes. Oh, how he takes. His nails dig and fingers trace and lips burn and gazes stay locked because he is so beautiful-)

_and it feels like someone’s cut you open with a jagged piece of glass_

Afterwards, it’s like someone cut you open with a jagged piece of glass because now he’s putting on his clothes and leaving you with rapidly cooling sheets and his lingering scent on the pillows, there for a few moments before following his retreating figure out of the door.

You understand why Icarus fell and know that given the chance, you’ll do it all again. That night you fall asleep with one conviction:

_He will be the death of me, and it is a death I welcome._

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you liked it and I didn't scar you too much with all these feels.
> 
> Comments and kudos welcome!


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